I would greatly appreciate the kindness
Of not giving me that smug look,
As if my bad days have anything to do with you.
As if I give the smallest care about who you're with or what you'll do.

The only thing that bothers me
Is your arrogant, ignorant, crinkled, smug face.
So please, point it in some other direction.

The adventurer returned home years later,
Carrying bags of seeds, stones, and rarities.

He found that his house had been painted
Green and white.
He didn't like it.

He found that his son had been born,
And named "Jean-Baptiste."
He didn't like it.

He found that his wife had figured him dead
And remarried.
He didn't like it.

He planted her the seeds,
Built her gardens with the stones,
Gifted her the rarities,
Then smiled and left her to her happiness,
But he didn't like it.

One day I'll learn to roll my R's,
And on that day I'll wed
An Irish vigilante who
Will shoot my villains dead.

I'm riding on ideas that won't quiet down;
Ideas of someone that continues to leave.
They shine for a while, a light between trees,
Then fade like an old song with notes overplayed,
And feelings like comfort soon make me afraid.

Stuck in an attic with old, molding floors,
A witch in the corner, no windows, no doors.
The roof just above us, I crawl on all fours.

Her eyes are too wide and her hair is too red.
She says, "One can leave when the other is dead."
The only solution is cleaving her head.

I tear up the floorboards as she crawls up close.
I find flies, a knife, and a Cherokee rose.
I do the sick deed and step back in repose.

Escaped, I walk soberly back to my home.
Avoiding more danger, through green hills I comb.
I crave coffee, music, and more time alone.

On the sofa we lay,
On his shoulder I leaned,
And he smiled and said,
"Play me a song."

So I grabbed my guitar
And began to pluck strings,
But then paused and thought,
"This is all wrong."

What I held was a fruit,
Yellow, bruising, and curved.
I peered up at him--
He didn't notice.

I continued to play,
But it squished with each strum--
He laughed as it came into focus.

The child dreamed of flight since she could first walk.

She dreamed of stepping not on earth, like the workers--
Not on workers, like the rich ones,
And not on rich ones, like the gods, no.

She dreamed of stepping on nothing.

She looked first to the stars, with a hunger.
She wanted them.
She saw the spacemen with stars in their eyes,
Stars in their pockets--
Stars wherever they wanted them.

She looked at the lack of workers, rich ones, and gods.
She looked at the quiet.
She looked at all the nothing there was to step on.

With her feet on the earth, packed into painful solidity,
She looked at them and ached.